


As a Stranger Give It Welcome

by DreamingPagan



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Prompt Fill, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-09 00:26:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8868811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: When he first hears Flint's story, he can't believe it. He's known the answer to his question all along, because he's met Thomas Hamilton. He broke him out of Bedlam.





	1. Alas Poor Ghost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andrea_deer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrea_deer/gifts).



> For a prompt fill on the kink meme: Silver/Thomas, not knowing who the other one is. Either they met pre-series or before Silver would be able to figure out who this man is, or anything else of this sort. 
> 
> They meet, they banter, they hook up.
> 
> They're both very surprised when later they learn about their common "friend". ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the title goes to @gedsparrowhawk, who helped me parse the ghost's speech in Hamlet for the right line.

He asks for James’ story on the eve of the battle.

He’s conscious that he is asking for James’ story, not Flint’s. There is a difference - one that not many would acknowledge or even see, but John, over the long months, has come to see it. There is a man under the monster, and that man - 

God, someone has hurt him so very badly. If someone had told him that six months ago, he would have laughed in their face, but not now. Now he can read it in the way that James closes his eyes before he lets Flint make the horrible, hard decisions he must make to keep them all alive and fighting. He can see it in the way that James returns after, hands shaking, eyes a little more haunted each time. He can read it in the occasional slip of the tongue that shows him an educated man, and one with a preference for Homer at that. He can see the man James must have been, once, and he wonders what happened to that man - what events created Captain Flint? It’s a puzzle, and one that eats at him as he slowly pieces together the shape of what must have been terrible events, and yet - something is missing. There is space in Flint’s sentences - terrible, gaping space the outline of which even John, who spends his days studying James even after they have become lovers, cannot quite make out clearly, and finally, now, here, he has to know.

It’s as good a time as any, he thinks. There might not be another chance, and if he or James are going to die tomorrow, he’d rather do so knowing what happened to start this - what happened to his lover to make him so closed off, so distrustful. When James answers, he’s surprised almost beyond belief.

“Before this began,” James says, “I was a Naval officer. I was respected - liked, even, by men who thought I had what it took to become an Admiral someday.” 

John can picture it. James has always stood like a military man, his spine ramrod straight and his arms held behind him, and here is the proof.

“So what happened?” 

“I met a man,” James answers. “The son of the Lord Proprietor of New Providence Island. I was assigned as the liaison, tasked with helping him set the island to rights before it all went to hell in a handbasket. I first met Thomas -”

John sits up, his mouth suddenly dry, heart beating faster. Wait - did James just say -?

“Thomas?” 

James nods. 

“Yes. His name was Thomas Hamilton.” His tone is heavy, his voice almost breaking on the name, and John feels his heart stop for a moment. 

At first, he can’t believe it’s the same person.

He cannot believe that the Thomas that James Flint describes - the noble son of an English lord and shit-stirrer extraordinaire, is the same person that he knew. The name is the same, but - surely the coincidence is too great to be believed? It’s simply not possible. And yet -

And yet he cannot help but picture it and wonder. Really, he supposes, he’s always half-suspected. The coincidence is simply too perfect - he’d thought it the moment he stepped on board the Walrus and spotted the captain’s flaming red hair and military bearing to go with the green eyes that had so captivated him at first sight. And that the man’s name was James -

It beggars belief, and yet that is apparently the world that John lives in, because as Flint continues on with his story, John can’t help but allow his mind to mull it over. He knows this man. He knows he does. He can hear the voice that James describes - can picture the man’s silhouette, can hear his laughter. He knows Thomas Hamilton - doesn’t he? 

“I returned from Nassau in the winter of 1705,” James says finally. “The situation had deteriorated by then, and Thomas -” He stops, searching for the words, and John leans forward. Here is the answer to the questions he’s been asking since he first met this man. 

“What happened?” he asks, and James meets his eyes. There’s a look on his face that John does not recognize - one that stops his breath in his throat and makes his heart feel as if someone’s squeezed it with all their might. There’s agony there - raw, unabated grief, and John knows before James opens his mouth what he’s going to hear. He’s heard it once already. 

“They took him,” James says, and John suddenly understands. More than that - he knows exactly where Thomas was taken. The shape of James’ silences resolves, forming a familiar figure. The ghost becomes real, and John gapes as James goes on. 

“I went to meet with - a man I considered my mentor,” James says, stumbling over the words. There’s more there, but it’s not something that John can prod him about right now. “Thomas’ father was waiting. It - by the time I returned to the house -” He stops. “Madness is such a hard thing to define, which makes it such an easy label to affix to one's enemies. Once it had been applied to Thomas, once our relationship had been exposed, defiled, scandalized…” 

“Stop.” The word comes out as a croak. He can’t stop it, any more than he could stop the tide. He can’t stay silent a moment longer - not with this knowledge burning him from the inside out. 

He’s a fool, maybe - too stupid to know when to keep his damn mouth shut, but then, he thinks, he’s never known when to be silent. He’s going to lose James. He’s going to lose them both and yet -

“You want me to stop _now?_ "

John reaches forward, his hands touching his lover’s. 

“James,” he says, “your Thomas-” He stops for just a second, gathering himself to speak again. Your Thomas, he’d called him, and yet - he swallows it, swallows the terrible thing that he’s just now realized and keeps going. “He wasn’t tall and blond with blue eyes, by any chance?” 

James stops, the bottle halfway to his lips, suddenly frozen. He lowers it, eyes coming to rest on John’s face, and the look in them confirms what John already knows. 

“How the fuck,” he asks softly, “do you know that?”  
*********************************  
_November, 1710_ : 

He’s not sure why he’s come here. 

It’s something to do, more than anything else, he supposes. He had a few pennies in his pocket for fun, and, well, he’s never been to Bedlam. It can’t be any worse than spending the day at odds and ends, contemplating what to do now that he’s without work (again, and honestly, John’s not to blame if things go missing now and again in the shop. A man’s got to eat, after all, but none of the shop owners he’s met so far have shared that kind of wisdom. He’s got about three days to find something to do. Again. Besides thieving, that is). The thoughts pile up in his head again, and he finds himself looking for something, anything to do to take the edge off the worry and the irritation. And so, he finds himself walking the unusually empty halls of Bedlam, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, his breath coming in little puffs of white that hang in the air, looking in on the lunatics, wondering which of the poor bastards were once exactly like himself - just men and women trying to make a living who snapped from the pressure of it. 

“What a piece of work is man,” he mutters. 

“I think you’ll find that it’s ‘what a piece of work is _a_ man,’” comes a voice from across the hall, and John jumps in his skin. The lighting is strange, and in the brightness streaming in through the window, John almost misses him, but he is there - a tall, blond man standing at the door to one of the cells, watching John with what he might almost term indifference, were it not for the flicker of something else in his eyes - loneliness, perhaps, or simple frustration, or both.  


“Beg pardon?” he asks. 

_“What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how_  
_infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and_  
_admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like_  
_a god,_ ” the other man quotes, and John raises an eyebrow. 

“Appropriate,” he says, gesturing to the building around them, and the taller man nods. 

“Madness and ghosts,” he agrees. “God knows there’s nothing to delight any man here.” John moves closer, though still out of reach of the bars. He’s heard things, after all, about lunatics that seem sane until you get within grabbing distance. 

“I was thinking more of the dust-to-humans ratio, but there’s that, too,” he admits, and the other man looks up, startled. 

“Oh,” he says. “You’re still here. Well. _There’s_ a nice change.” 

“Do people often leave, when they find a lunatic quoting Shakespeare?” John asks, and the lunatic in question raises an eyebrow. 

“I don’t normally talk to people,” he answers. “They often take it as an excuse to throw things. Or stand there and stare and taunt. Mind you, they do that anyway.” 

His expression does not change, but John winces at the tightness in his voice beneath the false light tone. He can imagine what people are fond of doing to someone who can’t run away. He’s spent too much of his life making a career of running for that very reason. 

“So why the difference?” he asks, the lightness of his tone matching the prisoner’s. 

The other man shrugs. 

“I’ve given up hoping to talk my way out, but I can’t seem to shake the habit of trying. I never did know when to stop,” he answers, a bitter tone to his voice, and John cannot help but think that that tone does not belong to that voice. It sounds - wrong, somehow, and he can’t help but come closer still, leaning up against the door. He can appreciate the sentiment - he, after all, has never learnt when to shut up either. 

“So - who did you piss off to end up in here?” he asks, and the prisoner looks up. He laughs, short and sharp. 

“The list of who I _haven’t_ managed to offend might be shorter,” he replies, and John laughs in return. He knows that feeling - God, does he ever. He settles in. 

“So, go ahead,” he offers, and the prisoner looks contemplatively at the wall. 

“There’s my father, of course, or I wouldn’t be here,” he says, and John nods. That’s on practically everyone’s list. “Everyone my father calls friend, although there aren’t many of those. Half of Parliament. God, if one pays attention to the Church’s opinion.” 

“Never been much on religion,” John offers, and the prisoner snorts. 

“No - nor am I.” 

It’s a good thing, John thinks - the Church doesn’t tend to approve of spirits lingering on past their time, and the man in the cell is most certainly that. There is something - not quite real about him, not quite solid, and suddenly John finds himself expecting to blink and watch the man disappear. He frowns. He’s not a man given to superstition, and yet -

“What’s your name?” he asks, and the prisoner raises both eyebrows. He appears surprised at the question, as if someone asking is unusual.

“You want to know?” he asks, and John shivers. It’s cold in here - so very cold, and he’s standing here, asking a ghost for his name, and bloody hell, what if he really is one? 

“Wouldn’t ask if I knew already,” John points out, and the blond eyebrow goes up again. 

“No,” the other man says. “I suppose not.” He starts to open his mouth again, and hesitates. “I’m not -” he starts, his brow furrowing with uncertainty. “That is -” 

_How long has it been since you said it?_ John wonders. It’s so quiet where they are. What if -? 

There’s a clang in the hallway, and question goes out the window as the prisoner winces, startled, turning toward the sound of the noise. John is startled too, but not by the sound. The change he sees in the prisoner, though - 

He had thought the man spectral, but in this moment, he is all too real. John stares, an unfamiliar emotion washing over him as he watches the prisoner’s reaction to the sound. He’s horrified at the fear that flashes across the man’s face - at the sudden hunching of his shoulders, at the way his breathing quickens, at the way he shrinks away from the door, making himself less visible, at the rattle of metal as he does so. They’ve chained him, he realizes, and is surprised to find that he is thinking of ways around this obstacle, although obstacle to what he is not yet sure, at least until he watches a group of visitors come through. 

They’re laughing, the lot of them. John watches in growing disgust as they stop at each door, poking and prodding at some unfortunates who have chosen to sit too close. They’re nobles, he’s certain of it - the cut of their clothing and the materials leave little room for doubt. He equally has no doubt that the man he’s just spoken to came from the same class - his accent says everything, as did his bearing before he became this frightened creature quite literally at the end of his tether, attempting to make himself as boring a target as possible, and it’s not right, what John is seeing in front of him. The man he spoke to a moment ago wasn’t - confident, exactly. He’d spoken softly, but he’d been possessed of a certain gravitas that demanded attention. Now - 

He watches, bile rising in his throat, as the group of rowdy nobles move past the cell, pointing and laughing, and attempts not to be ill as one of them imitates the clutching of the prisoner’s arms with his hands and the shaking that racks his frame until their laughter moves down the corridor. He watches them leave, his eyes tracking them down the corridor, and he knows what he’s going to do. 

There’s nothing to be gained. Absolutely fuck all, and it will be dangerous to boot. The rational, reasonable part of his mind that he’s listened to all these years tells him that, and yet - 

_Can I actually do it?_ A dangerous part of his mind murmurs, and he can’t quite help but wonder. Can he? Should he? 

The prisoner is a noble. John would stake his life on it. If he removes him from this place - sets him back on the pedestal from whence he presumably came - there might, just might, be a sizeable reward in it. That’s the calculating, sharp-eyed version of the reason. And the real one - 

Maybe John’s as insane as anyone in this place, but the man in the cell has a quiet voice. There’s something different in it - something different in him that’s drawn John’s attention, and maybe there’s an element of self-interest in this, too, but the man reminds him in no small measure of himself. Suddenly, it’s all he can do not to imagine himself here - locked up, denied human interaction - 

Christ, no one should have to endure that, not in life or death. It’s a nightmare, and the full body shiver that strikes him has nothing to do with the cold. What a piece of work is man, he’d said, but it should have been there but for the grace of God go I, and wouldn’t he want someone to do something if it were him in here? Wouldn’t he want someone to get off their ass and _do_ something? 

He shudders at the memory of the poor wretches he passed on the way here, and at the racket he’d heard coming from the basement. This is no place for an interesting man, still less one who evidently enjoys books, and John is just dis-enthralled enough with the establishment as it stands to help this one to outwit it. Mind made up, he clears his throat, and sees the taller man startle, his head coming up from where he’s lowered it, his blue eyes staring at John with something approaching shock. 

“You look like you could use a blanket,” he says. Life, after all, needs warmth. “If I can manage it, I’ll bring you one tomorrow.” 

The prisoner blinks, his brows starting to knot together. 

“Did you just -?” he starts, and John nods, his resolve hardening all the more. The man shifts, pushing himself to his feet again with a rattle of chains, and John clenches his teeth. Yes - that’s going to have to change, no question about it. 

“Do they ever let you out of those things?” he asks, and the other man gapes, understanding flashing across his face lightning-quick, his mouth actually opening a fraction before he slams it closed again. He scans John’s face, his gaze suddenly very sharp indeed, and John gives him a grin. The man may be mad, but he’s still intelligent enough to take a hint, and John has suspicions about him being mad - or not, as he’s increasingly leaning toward. The other man inhales shakily and swallows. 

“Once or twice a day,” the blond says, his voice suddenly unsteady. “More, when I’m - when I mind my manners. Don’t - you can’t possibly promise -” He looks - almost frightened, John thinks, as if he can’t believe that anyone would offer him what John means to. 

“You’re right. I can’t. But wouldn’t you rather try than spend Christmas in here?” he asks, and the prisoner stares at him for a moment, visibly struck at the simplicity of the question. At last, he nods, a short, sharp jerk of his chin up and down. “Good,” John says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. -” 

He raises his eyebrows expectantly, and one corner of the prisoner’s mouth twitches upward, just a fraction, in the ghost of a smile. 

“Thomas,” he says. “My name is Thomas Hamilton.” 

John nods, gives Thomas a ridiculous, exaggerated bow, and turns on his heel, walking out of Bedlam. He has an escape to arrange, and the beginnings of a plan forming. 

*************************************  
The next day at the asylum is especially busy, John is pleased to see. Of course, it may have something to do with the rumors going around the district that there is a new prisoner - one, if John has heard the rumors correctly, who is quite utterly out of his mind, raving and prophesying all kinds of nonsense. If that prisoner happens to be rumored to live on the same floor as Thomas, and if John happens to arrive just as a large influx of people flood the halls, making it difficult to distinguish prisoner from visitor save by clothing quantity, then that is all to the good. John grins at the crowd, and makes his way through, filling his pockets with coin as he does so. He’s going to need a decent amount, after all, on the off chance that some guard or orderly starts to get suspicious. 

He finds Thomas near his cell, apparently having been allowed out into the gallery today, looking somewhat bewildered at all the noise and the change from the previous day. He’s unchained, and seems to have been left largely to his own devices to exercise or, as he has elected to do, stand by one of the walls, looking askance at the madding crowd who are all focused in the other direction. He looks up as John approaches, and John sees the flash of relief that travels over his face. 

“This is the plan?” Thomas asks. “Flood the halls and - what?” John grins. 

“Hello to you too.” 

Thomas looks a bit flustered, and he seems to consciously register what John’s just said, a flush traveling over his features. 

“Apologies,” he offers. “I - didn’t sleep much, last night.” 

“Not exactly shocking,” John points out, and sees Thomas’ apprehensive expression, as if he’s half anticipating being told he’s staying here despite John’s promise of the day before. 

“How are you -?” he asks, and John raises both eyebrows. Thomas subsides, and John pulls out the spare set of clothing that he’s managed to smuggle into the place past prisoners, visitors, and guards alike. He hands it over - 

And feels Thomas reach out to take it, feels his hands through the fabric. Not a ghost, then - not a spirit, but a man, and one that’s now close to John, his breath coming a bit short, the warmth of him close by, his breath making small clouds in the chill air. Alive - and about to get out of this hellhole if John has any say in it. 

“Hope you don’t mind changing in public,” John says, swallowing the words he wants to say - the relief he feels in finding that he is not here to rescue a restless phantom. 

“I’d walk naked through Chelsea Square if it would get me out of here,” Thomas says fervently, and John nods. He looks up and down the gallery, looking for the guard. 

“When I say go, get those on as fast as you can,” he says, and Thomas nods, his hands already going to the neck of the ragged-looking shirt he’s wearing. He’s stripping a moment later at John’s signal, pulling on the clothing that John’s brought, and John can’t help but wince at the scars he sees in the brief moment when Thomas is between shirts. He’s done surprisingly quickly, and when the crowd parts again, there’s no patient standing in stained linens but two men who look like they’re part of the gathering of visitors to the asylum. 

“Now,” John instructs, “walk. Don’t hurry. Any patients that would know you?” 

“The woman two cells down, and the man in the cell next to hers,” Thomas answers. “Why -?”

“So we don’t look in those cells and give away the game,” John answers, and at Thomas startled expression, he gives him a grin. “You’re a visitor, remember?” he says, and Thomas looks up and down the gallery, his apprehension plain. 

“They’ll notice -” he starts, and John shakes his head.

“No,” he predicts. He takes the rags Thomas has been wearing and tosses them into an empty cell as they pass, and, within minutes, they are heading toward the doors. It’s absurdly simple, really. They walk out of the building, and Thomas does his best to conceal his trembling as he passes the iron gates, his knees going weak almost the moment they are outside, on the London street. John props him up, and he stands, shaking, his breath coming hard as he attempts not to break down crying in public, safe at long last. 

“I can’t believe it,” he says after a while, and John turns. “I can’t believe it was that easy.” 

“It’s amazing what people will overlook,” John comments, and Thomas laughs - an actual, honest-to-God laugh. It’s a good sound - one that John can’t help but join in on. He’s just broken a man out of Bedlam for no better reason than because he could, and he may not have a job or a future, but he’s never felt more alive. After all - he’s just pulled off his biggest theft yet, and the alarm bells haven’t even rung.

“You haven’t told me your name,” Thomas says, and John starts. “You’ve just saved my life, and I don’t even know your bloody name!”

He’s still laughing, as if he hasn’t done so in an age, and for all John knows, maybe he hasn’t. 

“How long were you in there?” he asks. Thomas doesn’t hear him over the noise of a carriage passing, and he repeats his question.

“Thomas?” he says, and the other man looks at him, clearly startled. “How long?” he repeats, and Thomas sobers.

“It _is_ still November, isn’t it?” he asks, and John nods, and the taller man nods. “Five years,” he answers, and John gives a low whistle. Thomas looks somehow shaken at the noise, and John can’t help but feel sorry for him in that moment. 

“Have you got somewhere to go?” he asks, and Thomas shakes his head. 

“No,” he admits. “I had -” He stops, and for a second a look of pain flashes over his face. He shakes his head again. “No. Nowhere,” he repeats. “Unless my brother still lives in London. He might take me in.” 

“You have a brother?” John asks, curious, and Thomas nods. 

“A half brother, several years younger than I am,” he says. “My father was not - well, he wasn’t any kind of father, to any of us or you wouldn’t have found me in Bethlem, but Will and I have always been close.” He looks at John with a different gaze, suddenly. “If you wanted to come with me,” he offers diffidently, “He might be willing to compensate you for your trouble. I - well, I can’t possibly repay you what I owe you, but-” 

“I am between jobs at the moment,” John answers, and Thomas nods. 

“Well then,” he says, and levers himself away from the wall, “that settles it.” He looks about them, and turns to John, his expression slightly sheepish. “You wouldn’t - happen to have enough for a cab, I suppose? It’s rather a long walk.” 

They arrive at his brother’s home three quarters of an hour later, and Thomas looks up at the house with apprehension on his face. 

“I thought you said you were close,” John says, and Thomas nods. 

“We were - we _are_. Just -” He stops. “I hope my father hasn’t gotten to him,” he murmurs. He looks at the front door a moment longer, and then steps forward. He’s not too steady on his feet, John notices, but then that’s to be expected for a man who’s scarcely moved more than four yards at a go for the past five years. He raps on the door, wincing at the sound, and they stand, both shivering in the November air. There’s a sound on the other side, like a key being turned in a lock, and then the door opens. 

“Yes?” says a voice that sounds like Thomas’s, if a bit deeper. “What is -?” The question cuts off abruptly, the key the man was in the process of pocketing dropping instead onto the floor beyond the threshold. “Thomas?” 

“Hello, Will,” Thomas says. “I’m sorry to turn up unannounced like this, I -” 

“You - you were - Father told us -” Will Hamilton blanches, and looks at his brother standing, his face dirty and stubble-covered, too thin and almost spectrally pale and very obviously not dead and on his doorstep, and John can see the moment the pieces click into place. “You’re alive,” he whispers, and then Thomas gives a grunt of surprise, the younger man’s arms abruptly wrapped around him tightly, his face suddenly buried in his brother’s shoulder (and Jesus, John thinks - they’re all that tall, apparently). The elder of the two giants raises his hands to return the embrace, and for a moment they stand, on the doorstep, not moving, not talking. When they pull away, there are tear tracks on both faces. “Thomas - _God_ \- come in, it’s freezing,” Will says finally. “And you, Mr. -?” 

Thomas turns to him. “Will, this is the man that broke me out of Bedlam, Mr. -” He stops. “I still haven’t the faintest notion of your name,” he says, sounding somewhat bemused and exasperated, and John smiles. He’s been mulling that over himself. He could give them his real name - his boring as sin real name, and it would be a gesture of trust. Of good faith. Or - 

A professional thief should have a name to be remembered by. 

“John Silver,” he introduces himself, “at your service.” 


	2. Doomed For a Certain Term to Walk the Night

December, 1715:

James is staring at him.

“He’s alive?” he asks, and John feels his stomach do a flip at the tone of his lover’s voice. There is shock there - shock, and anger, and something else, something John hardly dares to label. He nods.

“Yes.” Flint stands, pacing away from him, and John struggles to rise, his leg giving him hell after sitting for so long. The tension in the air snaps and snarls, and John ignores it, forging ahead. He’s not going to back away from this - not going to back away from James.

“James -” he starts, and Flint whirls, the look in his green eyes wild. 

“It’s not possible,” he snaps. “It can’t be. You’re lying, or -” He stops, looking at John’s face. The firelight partially obscures his face, making him seem briefly only half present, part of him eaten by shadow, but John can still see the trembling in his hands and hear the choking sound he makes low in his throat. “It’s not possible,” he repeats, less denial than desperate plea this time, and John takes a step closer, parting the shadows, reasserting himself into James’ space and forcing away the darkness that threatens to envelop his lover, taking him with it. 

“James -” he starts, and he sees the moment that James accepts that he’s telling the truth. 

“You freed him,” he breathes, and John winces at the guilt in his voice. “You walked into Bedlam and -” He cuts himself off, and John can practically hear the recriminations running through his head. _You saved him and I never even tried. It was so easy. Why didn’t I try?_ He lays a hand on James’ shoulder which is quickly shrugged off, and he does it again, only to be rebuffed once more, more forcefully this time.

“You knew,” Flint accuses. “You knew who I was from the first. Why did you -?”

“I didn’t know,” John cuts him off. “James - I swear, I didn’t. If I had known -” he starts, and he can see the flare of anger in James’ eyes. He stops, watching James’ hands form fists and release again, watching as his lover looks about for something to throw. “If you throw the rum, you’ll regret it later,” he says, and sees James startle. He looks at John, and there’s something lost in his gaze.

“Five years,” he chokes, and John is not sure if he means how long Thomas was in Bedlam, or how long it’s been since he was released. He gets his answer a moment later. “Five fucking years,” James repeats. “Miranda died thinking he was gone. I - did he even know where we were -?” 

His voice is a low, terrible thing, and John can feel his heart breaking for the man all over again. 

“He believed you were dead,” John says. He crosses the distance between them, taking hold of James’ arms, looking into his eyes. “James - he didn’t know. He still doesn’t,” he says, and watches the truth of the statement sink in, sees the moment that rage turns to resolve - and watches as James turns on his heel, striding out of the clearing, leaving both sword and coat behind, heading away into the dark night. 

“James,” John starts. “James!” 

He enters their hut to find James packing. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks. 

“London,” comes the short answer. 

“And the war?” he asks. He understands - of course he does, and yet -

“Fuck it.” James’ hands are moving, sure and efficient, loading a duffel with the few possessions he has brought to shore. Clothing is neatly rolled to take up the least amount of space. Equipment is stowed carefully, and, not for the first time, John can see the traces of the military man that’s been hiding under the pirate. He allows himself a second to picture Flint in a Naval uniform and almost snorts. He somehow doubts that officers are encouraged to wear earrings, or beards.

“The battle tomorrow -” He starts, and James turns.

“I’m leaving,” he says firmly. There’s no give in his tone, but there’s no rancor, either. He’s stating a fact. “The war will go on with or without me,” he says. “There’s no need for me to stay - not really, given the role I’m to play. Hell, you could do it. They look to you now as their leader.” 

“Leader, yes,” he says, “but of the two of us - which one do you imagine casts the longer shadow?” 

It’s the wrong thing to say. He can see that - he knows it the moment it comes out of his mouth. Flint scowls, and he moves quickly, blocking the door, hoping to undo his mistake.

“How are you planning on leaving the island?” he asks desperately. At that, Flint does pause.

“There are skiffs on the beach,” he answers after a moment. “I’ll take one and -”

“And row away, straight into the arms of Rogers’ flotilla?” he asks, and sees fire flash in James’ eyes.

“If you think I’m staying on this island, knowing that half the men here are about to get killed tomorrow, after telling me that the one I’ve done all of this for - the person in whose name I’ve given up _everything_ that ever mattered to me - is still out there -” he starts, and Silver laughs. 

“Half?” he asks, and Flint gives him a look.

“You know that’s -”

“Not nearly high enough,” Silver finishes bitterly, and Flint frowns.

“The plan -” he says. 

“Won’t fucking work without you,” Silver says. He steps closer, his hand gripping James’ arm. “How many of those men do you think will stay when they wake up to find that Captain Flint has mysteriously gone missing in the night? Where are you planning on coming with Thomas if this place and every place like it is wiped off the map when the British get their way?” 

At that, Flint does pause. Silver can see the uncertainty playing over his face, and he uses the moment, knowing how short his window is likely to be. 

“Stay,” he urges. “When this is over - immediately after - I’ll come with you. We’ll fetch Thomas together, and we’ll come back here to finish what we started.”

James takes a deep breath. His eyes search John’s and then, reluctantly, he nods.

“Alright,” he agrees. “I’ll stay.” He shakes his head. “Christ,” he sighs wearily, sitting down on his cot and scrubbing a hand over his face, and John releases the breath he’s been holding since he started this argument. That was too damned close. 

“Thank fuck,” he mutters, and James looks up at him, an apology in his eyes.

“I suppose you’ll want to stay?” he asks. It’s his way of apologizing, John knows, and he gives his lover a half-smile, sitting down next to him. 

“Well, if you think I’m going to walk all the way over to my hut after chasing you here...” he answers, and James winces. 

“How _is_ the leg?” he asks, and John shrugs. James gives him a look, and John rolls his eyes, swinging the bad leg over to rest in his lover’s lap. As James unbuckles the boot and eases it off the stump, he hisses, and then James’ fingers are kneading his thigh, releasing the tension that’s become pent up in the muscles there.

“For what it’s worth,” he grits out past the pain, “I am sorry for what happened to you and Thomas.” 

James stops momentarily, and then continues the massage.

“So am I,” he answers quietly. He continues in silence for a moment and then, very quietly, he asks, “How was he?” John takes a deep breath.

“You’re sure you want to know?” he asks, and James looks up, a brief look of anguish flashing across his face. John reaches out, a hand going to his lover’s shoulder briefly, and James meets his gaze. 

“That bad?” he asks, and John nods. He closes his eyes for a moment. “Fuck,” he mutters, and John offers him a smile.

“It was better, later,” he says, and James frowns. 

“Later?” John nods, and then catches sight of the look on James’ face. “I ran into him again a few years back -”

 _July, 1712_ :

He’s considerably further north when he sees Thomas Hamilton again. 

It’s not, he thinks, that England didn’t have her charms. It’s just that he’s rather outworn his welcome. He’s always had a facility for persuading people to do things, luckily, and on this occasion he’s been lucky enough (and charming enough, he thinks with no small degree of satisfaction) to talk his way onto a passenger ship headed for Amsterdam. He disembarks, glad to be on solid ground once more -

And runs immediately into a familiar, tall, blond form as he turns.

“Apologies - John?” 

He looks up.

“You - look good,” he blurts out, and Thomas grins. For all John’s long practice at flattery, it’s true. When he had first encountered Thomas, the man had looked more like a wisp than a person. That is no longer true. The hair he remembers as being both blond and short is now blonder and longer, pulled back away from Thomas’ face in a queue. The taller man is wearing clothing that looks like it’s well out of John’s price range, and he’s gained much-needed weight. He looks altogether more solid - more real, somehow.

“Natural consequence of prosperity,” he answers. “How are you?” 

“Fine,” John answers honestly, looking the other man up and down. He’s dressed for travel - sturdy shoes, a cloak, and a pack that looks like it’s seen some hard use lately. “Where are you heading?” 

Thomas, it transpires, is headed for Groningen. 

“I’m to take a teaching position there,” he says, and John gives him an impressed look. 

“From madman to university professor,” he says. “Count me impressed.” Thomas beams, and John can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. The man he’d rescued had spent far too little time with that particular expression on his face. 

“Yes, well,” Thomas says, “I didn’t wish to sit around all day doing nothing, and as England seems to have decided I’m dead -”

“Wait - they’ve decided you’re dead?” he asks, and Thomas winces. 

“Yes,” he answers. “Apparently my father was pleased to put about that I’d died, and somewhere along the way, someone in charge of such things believed him. And as I can hardly declare myself still alive without revealing that I also left Bethlem in a rather unsanctioned manner -” He shrugs. 

“And here I was upset at being an orphan,” John says, and Thomas gives a short laugh. 

“Yes, well, someone’s done me a rather large kindness while I was being held, so that’s both of us,” he says. “You don’t want to hear about my troubles, though, I’m sure. Where are you staying?” 

It takes John all of two hours to finish falling in love with Thomas.

The problem, he thinks, is the man’s voice. It’s always been the problem, really - that, and the look he keeps directing John’s way, the look of fondness and the quick smiles he keeps eliciting with his frankly terrible attempts at humor. Thomas Hamilton is simply too good, and John can’t quite help but appreciate his features now that they’re not gaunt and pale any longer. The man has recovered nicely from his ordeal, and the play of muscles beneath his clothing is fully as distracting as the blue of his eyes.

“And that was how I discovered that the Queen is in fact having an affair,” Thomas was saying, and John starts, staring at him. Thomas grins, his goal accomplished.

“Ah, there you are!” Thomas says, and John can feel the guilty flush move from his neck up into his cheeks. “I’ve been wondering where you had wandered off to for the past half hour.”

John flashes him a grin, and gets a knowing look in exchange. 

“You know,” Thomas says, “I don’t think I ever told you what I was doing, prior to being locked away.” 

John shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “I’d love to hear it, though, if you’re sharing.” Thomas is still looking at him, and his expression has grown more thoughtful. 

“I was about to present a bill in Parliament for consideration,” he says. “If it had succeeded, it would have changed many people’s lives.” John nods along. 

“What was -?” he starts, and Thomas continues overtop of him, deliberately, quietly. 

“I was also in love,” he says, very softly, “with a Naval lieutenant. Breathe, John. That’s it.” 

The reminder is timely, because John has just stopped breathing temporarily in favor of staring at Thomas, dumbstruck. 

“You -” he starts to ask, and Thomas gives him a tight smile. 

“Apologies for being forward, but I thought it was simpler than watching you stare at my mouth all night,” he says, and John manages to find the bit of him that is not currently entirely occupied with doing a mental dance. 

“You - you were in love with a lieutenant?” he manages to stutter, and Thomas nods. 

“Yes. He had red hair, and the most perfect green eyes I’ve ever seen in my life, and I don’t suppose I’ll ever quite move past what happened between us, but I -” he stops, and John waits, breathless. 

“He and my wife both died, a long time ago and I’m tired,” Thomas says, slowly, deliberately, in a quiet tone, “of going to bed alone every night. I’m tired of pretending that I can close my eyes and it will all be a dream that I’ll wake up from any day now. James would -” He stops again, and John quietly files away the information he’s just received. James. Thomas’ lieutenant was a red-head named James. He doesn’t know why that seems important, but it is. “I’m not dead,” Thomas says finally. “Not anymore. Help me prove it to myself?” 

John stares for a moment, looking at Thomas' face. He’s not dead, John thinks suddenly, fiercely. He’s very much real, and if this is what he wants -

Well, why the fuck would John argue?

“That’s -” he says, and swallows. “So - would you like to go upstairs and -?” 

Thomas nods, and without further ado, John slips out of his chair. He leaves the taproom alone, and when fifteen minutes have passed, Thomas follows him up to the room they’ve gotten lucky enough to be staying in alone. It pays, apparently, to have wealthy friends. 

Or wealthy lovers. John gives a gasp as Thomas crosses the room and, without hesitation, kisses him, sealing their mouths together. He’s heading backward toward the bed almost before he knows what’s happening, and then they’re tearing at clothing, only just managing to get it off without ripping anything, although it’s a close call on a couple of the buttons on Thomas’s shirt. He stops for a moment, appreciating the expanse of pale skin that’s been revealed to him. Thomas - well, he’s beautiful. There’s no denying that. John looks at him, and his breath shortens, taking in the long, lean torso spread out in front of him and the smooth lines of muscle occasionally criss-crossed by raised marks in various shades of red and white. He takes a moment more to marvel at the blond hair that covers Thomas’ chest in a scattered pattern leading downward in a line - one that John follows with his fingers towards its end, and sees a look of uncertainty and even embarrassment flicker across Thomas’ face.

“I’m aware that I’m not - that is -” he starts, one hand going to rub at the scars on his wrists, and John reaches forward, taking hold of the hand and kissing the scar that Thomas has been worrying at. He follows by cupping Thomas’ face with the other hand, and kisses the first mark he sees, one high on Thomas’ shoulder. He moves to the ones that encircle his neck, and feels Thomas shudder. 

“Does that answer your question?” he asks, and Thomas does not answer, just lowers his head to suck his own mark into John’s collarbone. At the same time, he reaches downward, and John jerks as Thomas’ hand finds his arse and squeezes gently, his fingers kneading. John groans, and Thomas smiles, suddenly confidence personified once more.

“Yes,” he answers and John reaches down, returning the favor, his fingers ghosting over Thomas’ hips and then working their way up his sides until they reach his chest. He lowers his head, leaving a trail of wet kisses from Thomas’ collarbone to the nipple that he latches onto. Thomas gasps, and John swirls his tongue and nips gently. Thomas swears, and then he feels Thomas’ hard length bump against him to match his own, a low groan leaving the other man’s throat even as he holds onto John’s ass as if for dear life.

“Christ,” Thomas mutters, and John laughs lowly.

“Is this the first since -?” he cuts off, deliberately refrains from mentioning Bedlam, and Thomas nods. He runs a hand over the hardness, and feels Thomas jerk as he hits the root, fondling his balls and then moving upward again, running his hand experimentally over the thick vein beneath, his thumb swirling around the tip and coming away wet. 

“Seven - oh God, yes - nearly seven years since last - time,” he admits, and John swears even as he closes his hand around both of them, starting a gentle rhythm that increases in pace as they both begin to become slicked, precum beading and beginning to slide downward. Thomas leans forward, his mouth seeking John’s again, and John releases a moan of his own as Thomas’ tongue licks along the roof of his mouth, his lips soft as he pulls back, taking John’s bottom lip and pulling at it. At the same time one hand comes to join John’s, coating his palm, and when his fingers begin to dip between the cheeks of his arse and rub at John’s entrance, they’re slick, moving in slow, insistent circles. John falters in his rhythm, and Thomas grins at him. 

“Ready?” he asks and John nods. 

“Yes. Fuck, yes.”

They move backward toward the bed, and then Thomas’ finger is in him, and soon another, until John is panting, three of those long, clever fingers working him open as he clutches Thomas’ shoulders with both hands, his head thrown back against the bed. Thomas pulls his fingers out and John whines, reaching forward to kiss him as Thomas lines himself up. His cock replaces the fingers within minutes, and all talk ceases, made unnecessary by sounds of their bodies moving together. John can see Thomas’ eyes, the blue nearly gone, edged out by the black of his pupils that are blown wide, and through the haze of the heat building inside him, he can see the smile that is spreading across Thomas’ face. Thomas closes his eyes, his hands clenching on the bedsheets beneath John, and John marvels at the length of Thomas’ lashes where they lay against his cheeks. It’s - the thought is stopped in its tracks as Thomas shifts just a hair, and John’s hips lift off the bed, a whine leaving his lips. Thomas’ smile becomes a full-blown grin, and he rolls his hips, hitting that spot again.

“Again,” John breathes. “Fuck, yes -” 

Neither of them lasts very long. It’s been too long, for Thomas especially, and they come almost at the same time, their chests heaving, the room going temporarily silent, any noise drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears, his entire body tingling and toes curling as he tries to muffle the sound of his pleasure. Thomas makes a similar choked noise. His entire body goes taut, there’s a rush of heat within him, and then they collapse together, sweaty but satisfied. They lie for a moment, still joined, before Thomas gently pulls out and lies next to him, a look of faint wonder on his face as if he’s just discovered something truly amazing - perhaps, John thinks, that he’s still very much capable of feeling this rush of pleasure and exhilaration.

“That,” he says at length, “was fantastic.” John hums in agreement, and Thomas grins, looking him over from head to toe once again. “You’re a masterpiece,” he says, and John feels the corner of his mouth turn upward.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he answers, and sees Thomas wince.

“Yes - sorry about that,” he says. “I -” 

John reaches forward, laying a hand on Thomas’ shoulder. 

“We have all night, you know,” he answers, and Thomas stops, a slow smile spreading over his face at John’s easy dismissal of the apology. 

“Yes. I suppose we do.”

It can’t last, of course.

He’s sitting in the bed they’re sharing, looking at Thomas’ sleeping form, watching him sleep, and he can’t help but wish it otherwise. He knows what Thomas would say, if he brought it up. He knows the other man would ask it of him - would tell him they’ll find a way, that this can be more than one night. It’s why he’s quietly gotten dressed - why his things are packed, and why he’s about to leave without so much as a single word. He knows what Thomas would try to tell him - and he can’t allow it. 

He knows, now, what Thomas has lost. He’s seen the look on Thomas’ face when he describes his lost lieutenant and the wife whose name John still hasn’t heard, though not for lack of devotion on Thomas’ part. He’s seen the fear that flickers across Thomas’ face, there and then gone again, as he considers the danger they would face with Thomas in the first days of a new position and thus under heavy scrutiny. He knows the risk - and so does Thomas, for all that he wishes he did not. He’s learned caution the hard way - John knows it only too well. The other man is in no way in any position to start anything, and John - 

Well. He’s never been one for staying in any place more than a few months, in any case. 

He shifts, starting to get up -

And is startled when Thomas reaches out, his hand grasping John’s wrist, his grip firm.

“I thought you might try to slip away without saying goodbye,” Thomas says softly, and John realizes that the other man is awake, his blue eyes fixed on John. 

“Thomas,” he starts, and Thomas rolls over, sitting up, the sheets tangled around his legs.

“John,” he answers, and John sighs.

“I’m not staying,” he says flatly, and Thomas gives him a reproving look.

“John -” He starts, and John shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “This can’t last and you know it. If we were to be discovered -”

“I know,” Thomas says wearily, and John stops. Thomas gives him a look. “You thought I’d protest,” he says, and John stares. 

“I -” he says, and stops. Now that Thomas says it - 

He stops the thought in its tracks. He can’t want to go and want Thomas to fight for him at the same time.

Thomas reaches out and brushes one lock of curly hair out of John’s face. 

“I wanted to,” he says. “I still do. If I had my way -” He shakes his head. “This should all be different. So different. John -” He rakes a hand through his hair in frustration. “I hate this, you know that. You deserve better, and so do I, but I can’t -”

He doesn’t finish the statement. He doesn’t have to, not when John found him in Bedlam to begin with - not when John’s seen what they did to him there. He can’t blame Thomas for being frightened, although whether he’s afraid for himself or for John is a matter for debate, one that he’s not planning on having tonight. 

“It’s alright,” he says, and it’s not, not really, but it is the way things are. “If I’m ever in the vicinity -”

“Come and see me,” Thomas says firmly. “John - take care of yourself. I still owe you my life, I know, but this is one debt I’d rather not see you in a position to have to call in.” 

John nods, words clogging in his throat for once, and Thomas pulls him back down onto the bed.

“Stay here for now,” he breathes, resting his forehead against John’s, and John nods slowly.

“Alright.” 

He stays. In the morning, he will face the harsh realities of the world, but for tonight, Thomas’ ghosts will have to give him up and let him live. He lays down, feeling the warmth of Thomas’ skin against him, and holds on all the tighter, taking comfort in the sound of his heartbeat.


	3. Rest, Rest, Perturbèd Spirit

He returns to the present with a jolt. The light has shifted, the candles in the room having burned down a way, and James sits, his face bathed in light from one of them, looking at him with a sort of dumbfounded expression on his face, green eyes fixed, as if trying to process the words that he’s just heard.

“I haven’t seen him since, although I did send a letter a year or two ago,” he says softly, still watching James’ face. “I still don’t know what the fuck I thought I was doing, but…” He shrugs, cuts himself off. No need to start that particular train of thought. In front of him, James is still staring. 

“You - and he -?” he asks stupidly, and John winces.

“Yes. I - of course, I had no way of knowing you were still alive, and Thomas -”

“No,” James says, and his voice has gone odd, almost relieved in a way, and John realizes that he is not actually displeased to find that Thomas has found some small measure of comfort elsewhere. “No - don’t apologize. Just -” 

He drags a hand over his face, and turns his head to face John, his expression vulnerable - tentative, almost. It’s a strange look on him, but a good one, and not for the first time John wonders what it is about this night that has brought this man to the fore - the one that sits in front of him now, the one that seems caught between two worlds, between two halves of himself. 

“He seemed alright? Not -?” he asks, and John nods. James sits back. 

“Teaching,” he says, as if he’s picturing it in his head. “That’s -” He stops, a faint smile flickering across his lips. 

“Suits him,” John agrees, and James nods.

“He was always fond of introducing me to new things,” he says, and John can’t help but hear the change in his voice - something almost reminiscent of the man he must have been when he knew Thomas creeping into it, edging out Flint’s rough growl and making John consider again his mental image of James as a gentleman. It’s not as incongruous a picture as it seemed an hour ago. The candlelight softens his face, somehow - hides the bald head and the earring and leaves behind the face of the man that Thomas must have known, his mouth turning upward at the corner, almost smiling. He’s - altogether different, and that thought hurts, because the James that he’s picturing now belongs in the rarefied world that Thomas inhabits. He fits, there, and John - 

John has gotten a glimpse of the real man behind the vengeful wraith that has been inhabiting James’ skin for so long, and he has no intention of letting that man disappear again, not now.

“We’ll leave tomorrow, after the fight’s done,” he says quietly. “James - he’ll be alright for another few months. He’s survived this long with only a little help from yours truly.” 

James gives a laugh, rusty sounding, but genuine, and John doesn’t have to do any plumbing the depths to hear the relief in it.

“We should get some sleep,” he points out, and James gives him a look. 

“You really think I’m going to sleep after hearing that?” he asks, and John shakes his head.

“No.” He’s certainly not going to sleep thinking about that night, and he can only imagine that James feels the same. He looks at James, and then, slowly, carefully, he reaches out and touches James’ face - runs his thumb down his cheek, and feels the moment that James begins to smile, begins to turn his head toward his touch. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, there’s nothing of Flint in them. 

“You little shit,” he murmurs, and John smiles. He intends to solidify this - to reinforce it if he can. This is the person that belongs in this body, not Flint. _James_.

“You know you love it,” he says, and James reaches out with one hand, drawing him closer and kissing him in answer. They slip off to sleep afterward still in the same cot, waiting for the morning and the fight that will decide their futures.  
**********************************************  
“For fuck’s sake, stop fussing!” 

“Should’ve just kept shaving it,” James mutters, and John rolls his eyes.

“You were the one that said you wanted him to at least recognize you,” he reminds, and James shoots him a glare. 

“I know what I said,” he growls.

“It’s fine,” he tells James for the millionth time. It’s - well, that might be a slight exaggeration, but it’s better than listening to his lover moaning about it for the entire morning. James is still in that awkward phase of growing his hair out where it’s never quite one way or the other, just sort of scruffy in some places and smooth in others. It grows quickly, thank God, or John’s sure he would have heard even more complaining by now. “The mighty Captain Flint,” he mutters. “Fop extraordinaire.” 

“I heard that!” James says, and John grins.

“Good. We’re here.’ 

They stop in front of a thick, heavy-looking door (and oh dear God, John thinks to himself, he has officially been a pirate for too long because his first thought is how much of a bitch the thing would be to break in). They’ve gotten the address from one of Thomas’ colleagues, who looked vaguely puzzled at their question.

“You - are friends of his, yes?” 

“Yes,” James had confirmed, and the man’s face had lit up. 

“Good! Good. The masters’ quarters are that direction. Second floor.” He gestured toward a building. He leaned in closer. “I know he is no boy, but still - I worry. It’s not good for a man to be alone so often.” 

He had hurried away, leaving John and James to share a look between them.

“Come on,” James says, and moments later they are standing in the corridor outside what they have reliably been informed are Thomas’ chambers, with James nervously raking a hand through his hair and Silver rolling his eyes, and the door still firmly between them and the man they’ve come to see. 

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” James says. He’s staring at the door like it might explode if he takes his eyes off of it. “He’s happy here. I’m not -”

“You’re not going to turn back,” Silver snaps. “We’re here. If you don’t tell him yourself, I swear to God I will.” With that, he turns, picks up the knocker on the door, and knocks twice. He hears rustling from beyond the door, and then a voice comes from the other side.

“I believe I mentioned that I didn’t want to be disturbed.” The tone is deceptively mild, but John can still hear the irritation in Thomas’ voice and he can’t quite help himself.

“Oh. Right. I’ll just fuck off then, shall I?” he asks, and hears a chair scrape against a stone floor and the sound of footsteps. There is a clunk as the latch is pulled, and then Thomas pulls the door open, looking shocked.

He looks good, John thinks. The Thomas he’d met in Amsterdam had looked damned appealing too, but the man in front of him - 

Well. It’s a good thing that John doesn’t plan on staying, or this might turn into an entirely different exchange.

“John?” John grins, and an answering grin spreads across his face. “My God,” he says, looking him up and down. “You’ve -” he gets to the leg and his eyes go wide. “What the hell happened?” he asks, and John winces.

“It’s a long story,” he answers. It’s a horrible start, but it’s the only thing he can think of to start the conversation. Christ - where is he meant to begin? 

They’ve rehearsed this - well, not so much rehearsed as agreed to let John break the news. After all, he reasons, they’ve come for a reunion, not a funeral brought on by a shock-induced heart attack. He’s done it with the more volatile of the two - how bad can the other possibly be? 

Looking at Thomas, he suddenly knows the answer to that question. Telling James about Thomas had been the easiest thing in the world. The words had wanted to come spilling out of his lips, just to end the pain that his lover had been in up to that point. Telling Thomas -

He suddenly appreciates James’ reluctance in coming here. He is about to rock Thomas’ world again - in a good way, he knows, and yet here he stands, quite obviously at home in his surroundings, finally happy, and John - 

John is about to present him with a ghost of the past that is likely to bring up all the old pain and fear and resentment. Worse than that - he is about to give Thomas back the one man that is arguably more important to him than anyone else in the world. He is, he realizes abruptly, about to rip out his own heart in the process of giving Thomas’ back to him. 

“Thomas -” he starts, and then - 

He’s forgotten how tall Thomas is - and how short John is comparatively, and how James just happens to fall right in the middle between the two of them. James shifts, clearly somewhat impatient and apprehensive, and Thomas’ eyes flick to the side, and he freezes, his eyes fixed on James’ face, mouth hanging open. 

“Thomas -” John starts, and Thomas’ gaze flicks back to him, confusion blazing in his eyes, and then he takes a deep breath, gaze focused on John and only John. 

“John - if I’m imagining things, I trust you to tell me,” he says quietly. “Is there someone standing behind you presently?” 

John feels the moment his heart breaks. He steels himself - and reaches out, places a hand on his shoulder, grounding him in the moment.

“You’re not seeing things. I know we’re a bit past Christmas, but -” He gestures. “Somehow I didn’t think you’d mind.” 

Thomas takes a shaking breath, and John squeezes his shoulder and steps out of the way, allowing James to come closer.

“Thomas,” James says in a soft tone, and the sound seems to shake Thomas to the core, sends a shudder traveling through him. “Thomas - I-” 

Thomas looks at him, finally, and John sees the moment when he stops questioning his eyes, stops thinking of anything but the man now directly in front of him. 

“ _James_ ,” he croaks, and then he simply reaches forward and wraps his entire long frame around James, holding onto him, and James returns the embrace, tears running down his face. 

John turns. He can’t bear it - he can’t be witness to this moment. He’s brought them back to each other. He’s done his good deed for his lifetime, and now -

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” James asks, and John turns to find both men looking at him, confusion etched on their faces.

“I thought -” he starts to say, and then it hits him. They’re - confused, wondering why he’s turning away, why he’s taking himself out of their space. They’re -

They’re solid, and they’re there, and they’re looking at him like he belongs with them, in their world - as if he is now the one in need of saving from becoming a shade, fading out of their lives as they had once threatened to do out of his. 

It makes a certain amount of sense. They were three before, weren’t they? And now -

Oh. Well. Isn’t that just all kinds of fucking unexpected? 

Of all the revelations he’s had in the past few years, this is easily the most pleasant. He returns, feeling warmth spread through him, suddenly relieved beyond measure, and Thomas reaches out and drags him into the embrace. To his surprise, he feels James free an arm to wrap it firmly around his back as well. 

“You’re alive,” Thomas murmurs. “Both of you. Christ, I never thought I’d see either of you again.” 

“You nearly didn’t,” James murmurs, and Thomas raises his head long enough to give him a questioning look. James gives him a tiny half-smile. “This idiot decided that the best time to tell me you were alive was the night before a battle. Nearly got my head lopped off trying to wrap my mind around the concept.” 

“A battle?” Thomas asks, sounding startled.

“Later,” John mutters, and he looks between them, then seems to decide that the question can wait given that they’re both more or less in one piece. He holds onto them both for a moment, and then James disentangles them, his eyes still brimming with tears as he looks Thomas up and down, taking in the longer hair and the heavier clothing necessitated by their proximity to the North Sea.

“You look like a Viking,” James says, and Thomas laughs. 

“You should talk. You look like a pair of pirates.” He turns to John. “John, you especially. What on Earth inspired the beard?” 

John looks at James. James looks at John. 

“Are you telling him, or shall I?” James asks wryly, and John shakes his head, grinning slightly.

“Let’s move this inside.”  
*********************************************************  
_Epilogue:_

“I still can’t believe we fell in love with the same person again.” 

Thomas is sitting in the window seat, his back resting comfortably against the wall, although John claims he doesn’t know how he can stand the cold of the stone walls. Thomas forbears to mention the times that he has faced far worse cold - he has seen the look on James’ face when Bedlam is mentioned, and he has no desire to talk of it himself. Some things are in fact better left unconsidered, as he has finally learned. James sits, his head resting against Thomas’ legs where he sits below him, Thomas’ fingers running through his hair, and he looks up. 

“If you ask him about it,” he says lazily, “he’ll tell you that he’s a hard man not to like.” 

“I _am_ a hard man not to like,” John pipes up, and Thomas laughs. A smile flickers across James’ face, still too infrequent a thing for Thomas’ liking, but there nonetheless. 

They’ve been through hell, the pair of them, but they’re here, alive and well. Thomas cannot deny that part of him had hoped, upon seeing James, that Miranda was alive as well - that she was merely waiting, but it’s not to be. He can see the effect her death has had on James, and he still cannot quite wrap his head around what James has told him of that night - or of the depth of Peter Ashe’s treachery. He will come back to that another day, he thinks to himself - he’s become an old hand at putting things away when he cannot bear to consider them, but for right now - 

For right now, they are all sitting in a room warmed by a blazing fire, with John leaning against Thomas’ shoulder and James’ head in his lap, and things are so incredibly, wonderfully better than they have been in long ages that he cannot bear to ruin the moment with what-ifs or should-have-beens. He’s had enough of that, the past ten years - enough grief, enough pain, just enough. 

“Don’t you have a class to teach or something?” John asks lazily, and Thomas cannot help it - he turns to look at the clock and groans when he sees the time.

“No,” he answers firmly, and James raises an eyebrow. 

“You do know you’re the master now, not one of the students?” he asks, and Thomas rolls his eyes.

“Believe me, I’m well aware. The little blighters won’t mind, trust me. They’ll be all the happier for a day off.”

“Ingrates,” James murmurs, and Thomas snorts. 

“It’s been ten years, James, and you’re still surprised when the privileged classes take what they have for granted?” 

“It’s been forty,” James corrects, “and yes.” 

Thomas laughs - a real laugh this time, and sits back against the wall. His James has changed so much in some ways, but in others, he is exactly the same sarcastic ginger idiot he was, and Thomas cannot help the relief that washes through him at the realization. They haven’t lost one another - not truly. They can rebuild, not the same, perhaps, but still, something good. He looks at John, and fondness floods through him. Better than good. Wonderful. 

If, that is, they are planning on staying. He sits up, suddenly alarmed as the thought passes through his head. 

“You’re not - I didn’t think to ask before now, but you are planning on staying, aren’t you?” he asks, and it’s John who answers. 

“ _I am most fortunate thus accidentally to encounter you; you have ended my business, and I will merrily accompany you home_ ,” he says, and Thomas snorts. 

“You realize that’s from a tragedy, I hope?” he says. 

“Exactly. Now, tell that to this one,” John answers, gesturing to James. 

“I’m more than ready to put aside playing Coriolanus,” James answers seriously. “I’ve been ready for ten years.”

“You’re quite sure?” Thomas asks, and James nods. 

“I don’t think I’d admitted it until I walked through that door but -” He closes his eyes, inhaling, and opens them again. “Yes. If you’ll have us.” There’s something in his eyes that Thomas cannot quite put a name to - longing, yes, but a sort of hesitance that he hasn’t seen in James’ eyes since the night they kissed for the first time, as if he’s afraid of the answer - as if Thomas hasn’t already told him he’s forgiven for whatever crimes he’s committed, that Thomas doesn’t give a damn, that he’s never letting James out of his sight ever again. 

“You’d better have us,” John says jokingly. “We’ve pissed off half of Nassau and the other half thinks we’re dead.” 

“Three ghosts,” Thomas muses. It’s fitting - entirely so, as it happens, and yet - he shakes his head. “No. There’ll be no ghosts here.” He gets up again, but this time it’s to grab three glasses and the decanter of wine that’s sitting on a side table. “A toast,” he says, and all three of them raise their glasses. “To resurrection.”


End file.
